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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25822414">Playing Games</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief mention of prostitution, Brief mention of slavery, Brief pretend dubcon, F/M, Gambling, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Undercover lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 12:07:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25822414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I heard this was a good place to make some credits,” the clone said.</p><p>“If you know how to play," Laseema smiled. "<i>Do</i> you know how to play?”</p><p>“M— a friend taught me.”</p><p>“Then I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Atin. Yours?”</p><p>“I’m Laseema,” she said, and this time her smile was soft and genuine. “It’s good to meet you, Atin.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Laseema/RC-3222 | Atin Skirata</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Clone Wars Saved Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Playing Games</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/variative/gifts">variative</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The entrance to the club didn’t look like much from the outside, just another dirty back door in a slum-level Coruscant side street. But like the man approaching it, the door concealed so much more. </p><p>The man, like most other guests of Club Kasakar, wore a deep-hooded robe that revealed nothing of his identity. The club’s rockcrete slab of a Dathomirian bouncer didn’t ask for his name or his face. Club Kasakar had no guest list to match them against. Anyone who could get past the bouncer, whether by bribes or threats, tricks or trade, was the kind of guest the club catered to. </p><p>The man in the robe paused, appearing to consider his options. Then a high-denomination credit chip flashed as it changed hands and disappeared into the bouncer’s back pocket.</p><p>Kar Kasa barely gave the door cam monitor more than a quick glance before waving at his girls. This was clearly a guest who needed <i>special</i> attention. One of them, his newest acquisition, had anticipated the command and was already getting up from the gaggle of pretty young things huddling on the couch across from his wall of holo displays and pict screens. She looked at him expectantly, eager to please, to show she’d been worth the price he’d paid Qibbu the Hutt for her indenture.</p><p>This would be a test of her, hosting her first high-stake guest. He let her know in gut-churning detail what would happen if she failed it.</p><p>She had mostly regained her composure, the tips of her lekku uncurling, by the time the guest exited the repulsorlift. The lift had been hidden behind the door in the alley below and carried him from street level hundreds of metres up to the penthouse club at very top of the starscraper. He had shed his robe, like a jewel-winged flewt emerging from its drab cocoon. Under it he wore a bright silver-blue shirt that shimmered and shifted in the strobing lights from the dance floor, and tight synth-leather leggings that hugged every marble-sculpted muscle from his abs down. Heads turned to look at him, just as they had turned to look at her when she passed them in her dress of satin straps and a sheer gossamer skirt. Kasa wanted his girls to advertise everything the club had on offer, and that included them. She wondered who had picked out the guest’s outfit; it was doing a lot of advertising of its own. </p><p>But it was his face that drew her attention, more than his flashy outfit or the model-fit body beneath it. It was unmistakable. It was a face she’d seen a hundred times on the holonews, on prop-art posters and protest placards, on the guests at Qibbu’s until the Hutt had sold her, and then sold her again as a special favour. But none of those faces had been <i>his</i> face, made unique by the pale lines of scars criss-crossing it. It both was and wasn’t the face she had expected to see tonight. She knew he’d been scheduled to arrive back on Triple Zero just a few days ago, but she’d already been embedded then, the op in progress. She’d been sure they would send someone else. Her heart skipped at the sight of him, alive and unharmed. This was the first time in five months she’d been close enough to touch him, to throw herself into the embrace of his arms and show him all the ways she’d missed him. Only the thought of Kasa watching through his hidden holocams stopped her before she’d done more than a double-take.</p><p>It was only a half-second’s hesitation. She breathed a prayer that Kasa hadn’t notice her slip.</p><p>“Hello, stranger,” she purred softly, stepping up to him and putting her hand on his arm. “Come here often? You look familiar.”</p><p>He stood gaping, taking in the sight of her. He couldn’t help himself; his eyes flickered down and then back up to hers, and he blushed at being caught looking, as if that wasn’t what she was there for. As if she didn’t <i>want</i> him to look. As if she hadn’t already bared her heart to him. </p><p>“Um. No,” he said, recovering, remembering that she’d asked him a question that she wasn’t supposed to know the answer to. “This is my first time.”</p><p>“A virgin, huh?” She smiled playfully at him.</p><p>He blushed even deeper and coughed to hide it. “I heard this was a good place to make some credits.”</p><p>“If you know how to play. <i>Do</i> you know how to play?”</p><p>“M— a friend taught me.”</p><p>“Then I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Atin. Yours?”</p><p>That caught her off guard, though it shouldn’t have. Men never asked for her name. Clones always did, even when all they wanted was a bowl of overpriced snacks and a smile from the pretty twi’lek serving at Qibbu’s. Names were important to them.</p><p>“I’m Laseema,” she said, and this time her smile was soft and genuine. “It’s good to meet you, Atin.”</p><p>She led him through the grand arches into the main area of the club. Games of chance, dexterity and wit were in progress at tables around the wide room, chance cubes rattling in cups and the shouts of winners drowning out the groans of losers. Girls of all genders, marked by the amount of bare skin they showed, went around with trays of drinks and silver pipes. There was a dance floor under the suspended stage where a live band provided music that wasn’t completely awful, and the air smelled faintly of quality spice. No death-sticks here; Kasakar’s was an exclusive club catering to the rich and influential, senators and aristocrats.</p><p>“You should get a drink,” Laseema said.</p><p>Atin looked up. He’d been watching the closest table intently, like a commando reccing enemy movements. Exactly like that, actually. He was too tense, too twitchy out of his armour and element. She needed him to relax so he wouldn’t give them away.</p><p>“I, uh. I don’t really—”</p><p>“You’re here to play?” she asked.</p><p>He hesitated, unsure of her meaning. Gambling was the pretence he’d used to get through the door; Kasa would expect him to be looking for a game. “Yes?”</p><p>“Then you’re here to have a good time.”</p><p>She guided him to the bar and signed for the bartender. “Wait here. Buy something. I’ll find you a game.”</p><p>“You’re not staying?” </p><p>She winked at him coquettishly. “Are you sure you can afford me?”</p><p>He blushed again. “I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“I know.” She was genuinely surprised by the offence he imagined she’d taken. She was a free woman now; Skirata had bought her indenture from Qibbu and turned it over to her. The scar where the medics had cut out her slave-chip was healing fine; soon it’d be barely visible. “I’ll come back. Just show me how much you’ve got so I’ll know where to seat you.”</p><p>He pulled out a pouch and opened it. It held more credit chips than she’d ever seen in her life.</p><p>She left him at the bar and passed through a beaded curtain into the labyrinth of private rooms behind the main area. Kasa was, as always, ensconced in his surveillance hub, watching his monitors with the cold-blooded patience of a snake. He didn’t turn around when she came in. He didn’t need to; he’d been following her through his cams and was now watching himself watching her. Even here, in his own lair, he had eyes to tattle on anyone sneaking up behind him. One of the monitors had been zoomed in to show a close-up shot of Atin.</p><p>“Lekkie,” Kasa said. As far as she could tell, he never bothered to learn his girls’ names. He called them by whatever attribute about them he first picked out. Redhead, Toggy, Fishface, Snout. The young male zabrak was Hornboy, always spoken with a lewd sneer. Laseema did not like Kasa at all. She suspected she’d have been Blue to him, if her skin hadn’t been almost exactly the same colour as the Chagrian’s own. </p><p>“What’s the deal with the clone, Lekkie?” Kasa asked. “He’s got a face I don’t like.”</p><p>“He’s got a stack of chips that you will,” she replied. </p><p>“How much?”</p><p>“Five thousand at least.”</p><p>Kasa hummed, stroking his horns. “Where did a clone get five grand?” </p><p>“He’s twitchy.” That seemed safe to say. Kasa could see as much for himself. Atin made a very poor actor. “I think he’s in some kind of trouble. Maybe he stole the credits. Clones don’t get paid, Qibbu kept complaining they dashed on the tab.”</p><p>“That’s right, you worked with clones at Qibbu’s. Well, if he’s in trouble, that makes him desperate, which makes him careless. Let’s see what you can do with him. Charm him if you have to, just get those chips off him.”</p><p>Laseema curtsied demurely and went back out.</p><p>She found Atin still sitting at the bar, now nursing a glass of something pink and foamy and glancing around like he was mapping viable exits and defensive positions. He probably was. </p><p>“You’re nervous,” she said quietly, sitting down next to him so she could nudge his knee with hers.</p><p>“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. “Deep cover. This is ARC work.”</p><p>“Then why you?”</p><p>He looked uncomfortable, picking at the napkin under his glass. “Well—”</p><p>A four-armed Kiughfid dealer at one of the tables caught Laseema’s eye and gave her a nod.</p><p>“There’s a seat opening,” she interrupted Atin. “Are you feeling lucky?”</p><p>He looked at her. “Yes,” he said, and a rare smile flickered on his face. </p><p>The game in progress was a high-stakes variety of Sabacc called Jhabacc. Working at Qibbu’s, Laseema had picked up the rudiments of it, but she was hardly an expert and neither, it seemed, was Atin. He played the minimal bets on every hand, frowning at his cards like he was struggling to remember even the basic combinations and correct moments to discard. Twice, he overlooked opportunities to sweep the pot. Between deals, he took out his sack of credit chips and pretended to count them under the edge of the table. He played through four hands, won nothing, and lost the minimum.  </p><p>Laseema had to admit she’d been wrong. The best actor was someone who didn’t have to act at all. It was almost painful to watch.</p><p>The dealer caught Laseema’s eyes again and flicked her a hand signal she had no trouble parsing. With an apologetic murmur in Atin’s ear, she went back to see Kasa.</p><p>The Chagrian was in a foul mood. “We can’t blank him if he won’t bet, and he’s slowing down the whole table. This isn’t working. Deal with it, Lekkie.”</p><p>“Of course.” She knew what he meant. She’d been counting on it.</p><p>She went back to Atin and draped an over-familiar arm across his shoulder.</p><p>“How about we find another game we can play?” she murmured in his ear. “A private game, just you and me. The entry’s high, but you’re sure to win.”</p><p>He looked up at her, faintly shocked. “But I, uh. I have a… girlfriend.”</p><p>Laseema raised an eyebrow at him. “Is she hotter than me?”</p><p>“She’s beautiful. And smart, and kind—”</p><p>“If she’s all that, I’m sure she’ll understand you’re here to enjoy yourself, and would tell you not to miss out on the fun.”</p><p>He hesitated. “<i>Are</i> you sure?”</p><p>She squeezed his hand under the table. “I’m absolutely sure.” </p><p>He folded out of the game, another guest already standing by to claim his seat, and let her pull him along to the back of the club and the private rooms that could be rented by the half-hour.</p><p>And then she took a wrong turn.</p><p>This was why they’d needed her. They had pulled what they could from the ‘net, safety holocharts sliced from the fire department’s database, architectural mock-ups and building schematics from the ‘scraper’s construction and subsequent refittings. But even mixing and matching, overlaying and superimposing to develop the most up-to-date plan of the club's premises, they’d still needed eyes-on recce. They’d needed someone on the inside, an infiltrated operative. A slave girl in a skimpy dress could walk into places where the toughest beskar-armoured mercenary would never even reach the door. She was invisible by being eye-catching, dangerous in her harmlessness. So they’d bullied Qibbu into selling her to Kasa, and she had worked every guest she could, drawing a mental map of every square inch of Kasakar’s as she flirted and danced, served drinks and spice, encouraging the rich and powerful to ruin what very little remained of their good characters. From the couch in Kasa’s surveillance hub, cowering under his gaze, she had studied his holoscreens, memorising camera angles, blind spots and dead zones. </p><p>She took the carefully planned wrong turn, and then another one, looking around with a frown on her face like she didn’t know where she was, and then they took a step to the side and slipped from one cam-blind shadow to the next, dodging other guests and club staff, until they had eyes on another door hiding more than it seemed. Laseema squeezed Atin’s hand in signal. From the moment they moved into view of the holocam across from the door, they’d get maybe five seconds before the alarms went off — maybe ten, with any luck, before Kasa’s brutes arrived.</p><p>Atin didn’t go for the door. He grabbed her and kissed her. Laseema’s eyes went wide. It was an instinctive response to struggle, to push against the arms embracing her and protest when he backed her up against something cold and unyielding — the door — but then she felt him squeeze her hand, their signal, and she thought, <i>oh.</i> So this was why they’d sent Atin and not one of the Null-ARCs. She’d told them how much Kasa enjoyed watching his cams. They could buy themselves more time if Kasa thought they were really only there because they took a wrong turn. If they put on a show. </p><p>It wasn’t as if she minded. It had been five months since she’d last seen him, and when Atin lifted her effortlessly, his strong hands grabbing handfuls of her ass, her legs wrapped around him instinctively. Not because she was afraid of falling, but so she could be closer to him, press herself against him and feel the heat of his body through his shirt.</p><p>He ground against her, already half-hard in his tight pants that hid nothing. He didn't seem to struggle with pretending either. “Tell me if I’m—” he murmured against her lekku, worry in his voice.</p><p>Her body was aching for his touch; the only way he could hurt her was if he stopped what he was doing. </p><p>“You’re not,” she breathed. “Oh, you’re not.” </p><p>The door behind her back was several sheets of reinforced durasteel, hard enough to withstand a rocket-propelled grenade, but this was no Seppie milgrade installation and the lock itself was laughably simple. Kasa’s security consisted of a standard civilian auto-bolt system and the fact that none of his guests knew he was spying on everything that happened in his club, at least not until he started extorting them for both their credits and their silence. Still pressing kisses against her mouth, her throat, her lekku, Atin’s hand fumbled for the electronic pad. Something up his sleeve made a soft beep, and he caught her easily as the door slid open like it hadn’t been locked in the first place. Whoever was in charge of Club Kasakar’s security would be in big trouble very soon, but not as big as what they’d just landed themselves in. The chrono was ticking.</p><p>The room inside was bare, lit by a single lumen-bulb dangling from the ceiling. A short data stack stood in the middle of the room, humming and blinking. </p><p>It didn't look like much, but it was the true source of Kar Kasa’s wealth, storing the holostreams from Club Kasakar’s many spy cams. Every sordid detail of the secret assignations happening in the back rooms, every politician who gambled away the pilfered tax credits of their constituents, every incognito senator meeting with Separatist agents, every instance of dignitaries being undignified. The data stored in this server could topple governments, change royal successions, bankrupt pangalactic businesses or see them rise to power.</p><p>And they were here to steal it, for the good of the Republic.</p><p>Atin palmed shut the door behind them, and then his hands were back on her. He lifted her up to sit her on top of the server stack, parting her legs so he could press the hard length of his erection against the wet patch on the satin strap that was all the regard for modesty Kasa afforded his girls.</p><p>It was partly for show. She knew there were cams even in here, and Atin knew it too. They were still playing their roles for the benefit of their audience. Atin's hand pushed between her thighs, caressing them until she squirmed — and dipped down, shielded from sight by their bodies, to insert a data spike into the port positioned on the side of the server right below Laseema's ass.</p><p>But only <i>partly</i> for show. Seven minutes and 45 seconds, Ordo had said. That was how long the slice-and-rip would take. They needed a convenient excuse for spending just short of eight minutes in a room they had no business being in, without anyone, especially Kasa, realising why they were really there. </p><p>Atin’s hand slipped under her short dress, his thumb teasing her through the smooth fabric. Laseema breathed a moan. If Atin cared that this, too, was being recorded, he didn’t show it. He kissed her like they were the only two people on the planet, stealing her breath away. His hands, trained for violence, for war, were so gentle on her she felt like crying out, urging him to move. They’d waited five months; she couldn’t bear to wait another five minutes.</p><p>Someone pounded at the door. Right. Kasakar had finally called his guards on them, to throw them out or simply off the building. They didn’t have five minutes. But she’d take what she could get.  </p><p>“In me,” she moaned, ripping open the gription seam of his pants that was threatening to burst. “I want you.”</p><p>“Are you—”</p><p>“Yes, damn you! I’m sure! I’ve never been more sure of—oooh!”</p><p>Just like that, he was in her, the burning hardness of him filling her.   </p><p>They had no time for anything except hard and fast, and that was how she wanted it. Feeling the power of him, the strength of his muscles as he drove forward into her. He was always so careful with her, like she was a fragile thing that might break at his touch, even the first time when he hadn’t yet learned how their bodies could fit together and he was shaking with equal measures of desperation and gratitude at her gentle guidance. Now, he gave her everything he had, and she wanted it and more. Later, she thought it was quite likely the fastest she'd ever climaxed, crying out and clenching around him when she felt him tense and groan a curse.</p><p>She came back to herself, gulping down breath, to the sound of a commotion outside, people shouting, someone hammering on the door again. A comlink transmitter on Atin’s belt was beeping urgently. </p><p>They look at each other, and jumped apart just in time. </p><p>There was a loud crash, the sound a durasteel-plated door made when hit by a hundred and thirty kilos of clone, armour and kit with a good run-up. The lock, which had resisted Kasa's inexpert attempts to slice Atin's override, simply broke under the force of the impact.</p><p>A clone trooper stepped in through the ruin of the door. He wore the pauldrons and kama of an officer, and his armour was decorated with bold stripes of red. It wasn’t quite the deep red of the Coruscant Guard, but in this light it was impossible to tell. Laseema knew only because she’d seen the armour up close in daylight and admired its bright scarlet trimming. The clone was followed by a trio of commandos in matte-black Katarn aiming DC-17s with an attitude daring someone to try something and make their day. The pointed their rifles in the general direction of Atin and Laseema — though not, she noted, actually <i>at</i> them.</p><p>“What the hell is this?!” Kasa’s voice demanded from the hallway outside.</p><p>“This is a raid,” replied the man who limped into the room past the commandos. He wore the dark blue uniform of the Coruscant Security Force with captain’s bars on his sleeves and collar. Behind him came another birth-born officer, tall and gaunt, the stark grey of his Republic Navy uniform matching his hair and his cold, cold eyes. </p><p>“It’s a waste of your time, is what it is,” Kasa said, following them inside. “I've got all my permits in order. And I’ve got several customers waiting right outside who’re about to give you a very bad day for interrupting their entertainment.”</p><p>The CSF captain grinned. “And I can see why. Nice place. I mean, tasteful. You’ve got a pattern on your floor that’s not the consequence of vomit. That’s rare, by casino standards.”</p><p>Kasa turned to glower at the gaunt Navy officer instead. “I'm telling you, you’re making a mistake, captain…”</p><p>“Tarkin,” replied the Navy officer.</p><p>Laseema had been convinced Atin didn’t have a sabacc face. It turned out he did.</p><p>“Well, Captain Tarkin,” said Kasa, who apparently watched the holonews less than he watched his security screens, “you should know the CG has tried this before, and it didn’t do them any good.”</p><p>“Oh, I know how you cover yourself,” said the CSF captain, waving him away. “The oh-so-expensive lawyers you keep on retainer throw out any raid as an illegal search. At most, you’re left with a nuisance fine for unlicensed gambling, and we’ll go away with our tails between our legs.” He smiled at Kasa. For all his good-humoured geniality, it wasn’t a nice smile at all. “The thing is, chakaar, we’re not here to mount another pointless raid on Kasakar’s tonight. But you’re going to wish we were.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” growled Kasa. “Just give me the fine notice and get out.”</p><p>The Navy officer, the one who’d identified himself as Tarkin, placed his hand on Atin’s shoulder. Atin kept staring down at his hands, but he shivered at the contact. It looked, to Laseema, entirely unfaked. </p><p>“Hello, Atin,” said the gaunt man.</p><p>“Sir,” Atin whispered.</p><p>The gaunt man looked at Kasa. “We’re here for RC-3222,” he said.</p><p>“What’s he done?” </p><p>“Not your business, but it wasn’t pretty,” said the CSF captain. “And it was enough to send him here tonight in a desperate attempt to raise enough cash for a ticket off-world. Let’s have him, boys.”</p><p>The commandos closed in around Atin. One of them mag-cuffed him rather theatrically and pushed him towards the door.</p><p>“Leave him alone!” Laseema cried.</p><p>“Bring her too,” the CSF captain said. “Let’s see what she knows about his activities.”</p><p>Laseema began to yell and cry as another of the commandos grabbed her and started pulling her along towards the main area. His black faceplate gave nothing away, but from the careful way he held her wrists, she thought he might be Darman. She'd have to apologise later for all the things she shouted at him — several of which it was impossible for him to be since clones didn't even <i>have</i> parents — and none of which he'd ever deserved to be called.  </p><p>The games had all paused. The band had fallen silent on their stage. The previously rowdy crowd had become a silent audience, waiting nervously to see if it was going to become a panicky fleeing mob. Another squad of clones had taken up positions around the room, their bulky Katarn colourfully patterned. No one could look menacing just standing around quite the way a commando squad could. One of them looked like he’d been in a fight already, his armour spattered with blood. The crowd gave him an even wider berth than his brothers, frightened by his savage looks. It was all Laseema could do to maintain the charade and not laugh at the sight of him enjoying the chance to play Big Bad Clone. Sev was never happier than when he was scaring the shit out of every nat-born civilian around him.</p><p>The CSF captain looked back at Kasa.</p><p>“One last piece of bad news for you,” he said. “We’ve just apprehended a deserter in flight. That's a felony charge, and it means we can seize all assets involved.”</p><p>“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Kasa breathed, his eyes widening with rage.</p><p>The captain shook his head sweetly. His remaining stealth commando started clearing the tables of cash, opening the table drawers to remove fistfuls of credit chips from the embedded trays. He dumped the takings into large canvas evidence bags, and had to take out additional bags to hold everything.</p><p>“This is robbery,” Kasa hissed.</p><p>“This is justice,” said the CSF captain, and for a moment, just for the <i>tiniest</i> moment, his mask slipped and the rage under it showed plainly on his face. Kasa actually took a step backwards. Then the CSF captain was back, smiling like it’d never happened. “Do you want a receipt?”</p><p>“Get out!” Kasa howled.</p><p>They went. Not to the elevator and the long ride down to street level, but to an unmarked atmospheric transport idling on the club’s private landing pad. The commandos bundled Atin and Laseema into the back and clambered onboard. </p><p>The CSF captain snapped his fingers. “Right. I almost forgot. Son?”</p><p>The imposing ARC trooper pulled something out of a belt pocket and tossed it on the nearest gaming table like he was throwing a chance cube. The device wasn’t much bigger than one either, a simple metal tube with a button and a light. The light was flashing. Someone in the crowd started screaming. Then it went off.</p><p>It wasn’t an explosion. Just a click and a soft pop. Then all the lights — the strobing neon, the stage projectors, the hand-held holo-recorders held up surreptitiously among the crowd, the landing pad guide panels — fell dark all at once. The only light left in the wake of the EMP pulse was the soft blue glow of the ARC trooper’s visor as his HUD scanned the penthouse for remaining power sources and found none.</p><p>“<i>Now</i> we’re done,” the CSF captain said.</p><p>In the back of the transport, the CSF captain sat down on the bench facing Atin and Laseema. He weighed one of the evidence sacks in his hands and counted the rest.</p><p>“About a hundred aurek, give or take,” he said. “A nice bonus to go with our main prize.”</p><p>He held out his hand and waggled his fingers. Laseema pulled out the data spike containing the entire content of Kar Kasa’s blackmailing catalogue from her up-bound cleavage. The only copy now, after the EMP had fried everything outside the shielded interior of the transport. Thanks to their deception, no one knew they had it, not even Kar Kasa, and without the recordings, without tangible evidence, no one had proof any of them had ever been at Club Kasakar. </p><p>“Well done, girl,” the CSF captain told Laseema, smiling warmly. “That goes for everyone else too.” His smile turned into a toothy grin. “Especially you, ‘Tarkin.’”</p><p>Walon Vau looked at him cooly. “You look like a complete di’kut in that CSF getup, Skirata.”</p><p>Kal took off the officer’s cap. It was the only part of the uniform that fit him; it had been made to measure for its previous owner, Jailer Obrim, who was almost a full head taller than Kal and quite a bit broader around the middle, and no one on their little team had ever done much sewing outside of combat triage. “Well, it did the trick,” Kal said. Obrim had been happy enough to donate it, no questions asked. Seconded to the CSF from the Senate Guard, the CSF had never managed to make him wear their blue duds in the first place.</p><p>“I’ll say,” chuckled Fi, taking off his helmet. He beamed at Kal. “Can I hold the stash? Just for a moment?”</p><p>Kal grinned and tossed him a heavy evidence bag. Fi rattled it appreciatively. </p><p>“Nice,” he crowed. “Very nice.” He grinned at Atin. “We’ll make a secret agent out of you yet, vod.”</p><p>“No,” Atin told him flatly, draping a blanket around Laseema’s shoulders against the chill. “If you like all that ARC stuff, vod, <i>you</i> do it. This was strictly a one-time thing.”</p><p>“Oh, they all say that, son,” said Kal, winking at Laseema as he reached over to pat Ordo’s knee fondly before leaning back with a satisfied smirk at a job well done. “They absolutely all say that.”</p>
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